That's right. Clark and Michael were nowhere to be found. Gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Not there.
I scratched my head and tried to think if they'd told me of some undercover mission (what am I saying? ALL of our missions are undercover) they were embarking on, some urgent meeting with one or other heads of state (with the boobs that currently run this planet? Unlikely) or just an extended run to the store for some extra tortillas, guacamole and Tampico... but we were fully stocked.
I hunted around for some signs of life, or even a note. Nothing. Not even a religious pamphlet from The Church Of The Eighth-day, Holy-Rolling, Everlasting Gobstopper Freedom-Bus-Drivers of Nutwackett, NV just over in the next town. (Nutwackett, that is - they're a different breed over there. They had a suicide cult once, but once they'd gotten the brand new Nikes on their feet, they decided they didn't want to die. They're now the local basketball squad. They're good players and all, just don't accept any offers of Gatorade.)
But like I said, there was a moment or two of quiet panic and about five minutes of tearing my hair out with worry at what might have become of my two compadres, my amigos, my buddies, my ol' pals Clark and Michael.
And then I had an epiphany. A revelation. Buddhists may even say that I had a satori. (I did, once, and it was delicious, especially when washed down with a couple Mai Tais).
Like I was saying, I had a satori. A pearl, a rare gem of sparkling wisdom, which was this.
I had the whole Unbelievabase to myself. I was alone with some fresh whipped potatoes and six of the Unbelievababes.
And that, my dear friend, is the point at which I quit worrying. I'll be OK, and I'm sure my buddies are big enough and ugly enough to take care of themselves...